


Wine Tasting

by The_Countess_D



Series: The Lost Heart Events [1]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Braids, F/F, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Sensual Hair Play, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26564536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Countess_D/pseuds/The_Countess_D
Summary: The Farmer nods, resting the edge of the glass against her lips. Even in the shadows, Leah can see that they’re stained by wine, a blush of purple spread across the plump center of her pout.
Relationships: Leah/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Leah/Player (Stardew Valley)
Series: The Lost Heart Events [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934983
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Wine Tasting

**Author's Note:**

> Felt like Leah needed a little more love in this fandom. Here is my offering to the void.

The Farmer can hold her liquor. “Another?” Leah asks, and though her cheeks are flushed, the Farmer doesn’t hesitate to nod. Leah picks her glass up from the floor, the stem still warm from her touch. The Farmer has a habit of holding her wine glasses like a beer can, palm wrapped around the delicate glass, fingers and all.

 _Kel would have hated that_ , Leah thinks. She unfolds her legs and takes their glasses to the open bottle waiting in the corner, the living room rug plush beneath her feet. She notes that he would have hated the choice of wine, too. It’s unrefined. A blend. Too tannic with little sweetness to balance it out, but this is the Farmer’s wine, and Leah can’t say no.

Months ago, she’d appeared at Leah’s door, the bottle violently purple in her hand. She claimed that she had an idea to put the old farm and the valley back on the map. A winery. Artisanal. Organic. Small batches. “You know,” She’d waved her hand dismissively. “All that overpriced shit.”

It would draw tourists in, give Stardew a new product to sell elsewhere, _and_ —here the Farmer took an indulgent pause—it would be the perfect place for Leah to showcase her sculptures.

Leah stammered. _Wait. What? No. How?_ She glanced nervously at the hodgepodge of materials in the corner of her cottage, the blocks of wood and stone and metal coils sleeping beside the pile of abandoned works-in-progress, and gulped. At the time, Leah couldn’t find the motivation to look at her chisel, let alone use it. Leah—the Artist, the Sculptor, the woman who moved to the middle of nowhere for a single whiff of Inspiration—couldn’t imagine a world where she had enough sculptures to populate a winery, but somehow the Farmer already had.

She’d refused to take no for an answer, her eyes glinting as she barreled into Leah’s cottage in search of a corkscrew. “You’ll be my first tester!” She declared, and so Leah was.

They found their threads of commonality at the bottom of the bottle. They were both city-girls fleeing to the countryside. Both seeking refuge from the horrors of a desk job. “Social media marketing,” The Farmer said, her lips pursing in disdain for the memories and her first sip.

Leah scoffed. “Customer service.”

“You win.”

Three glasses in, the Farmer burst into giggles as she swirled the remainder of her drink. “This is really terrible, isn’t it?”

“Awful,” Leah agreed, gleefully taking another swig.

It became routine after that. The Farmer would appear at the door with a new bottle. Leah would put some finishing touches on her latest sculpture. The Farmer uncorked it. Leah filled the glass.

This bottle was attempt number eight, and though the flavor profile still nipped at them like a stray dog, it was the first that hinted at the potential for something passable. Which was exactly why, the Farmer claimed, she’d saved it for the night of Leah’s big show.

She managed to keep it hidden until after she helped Leah carry her sculptures back home. Just when Leah thought the night had peaked, the Farmer pulled the bottle from her backpack with a proud flourish. They started drinking at the dining table, but by midnight they’d migrated to the rug, sitting in front of the fire with blankets around their shoulders and giggling quietly about various jokes related to ‘wood’.

Leah picks up the bottle and pours, her aim sloppy and liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass. Lifts the bottle to eye level to check how much is left. In the light of the fire, she determines that she overdid it. The bottle is placed down with a shrug.

When she turns, the rug is empty. The Farmer’s migrated without her, her feet carrying her to the corner of sculptures. She’s staring, arms crossed, at ‘Wooden Sculpture 3’, and though the Farmer has already seen it, spent time circling it in the town square, Leah can’t help but feel self-conscious. She tries not to rush to the Farmer’s side and affects an air of calm as she passes the glass to the Farmer’s indelicate hands.

The Farmer smiles gratefully, her eyes glinting. Leah realizes she didn’t choose her workspace with company in mind. If she’d considered it, Leah wonders if she’d choose a space so close to the foot of her bed. Cutting through her thoughts, the Farmer says, “They really are beautiful, you know.”

Leah lets out an undignified snort. “They’re… _fine._ ” She chose the right material for this one. She likes how the whorls of the grain run counter to the curves of the wood. But it isn’t quite as grand as she would have liked. The ends are shorter than she’d planned. She chiseled too much when she hit her groove. “I’ve tried to carve this shape millions of times. It’s never right.”

The Farmer nods, resting the edge of the glass against her lips. Even in the shadows, Leah can see that they’re stained by wine, a blush of purple spread across the plump center of her pout. When they part, Leah flicks her eyes up. “I didn’t want to say anything at the show, but… it looks a lot like the sculpture you gave me.”

Leah’s cheeks warm. “Well, it is.” She pauses, then amends, “It’s a version of it.” She gave the Farmer the best version. The closest approximation to the vision that had rooted itself into Leah’s mind, dragging her back to it again and again.

Leah had started the gift the day after the Farmer stumbled in on one of Kel’s calls. Leah was fidgety that day, flitting from corner to corner of her cabin and wringing her hands. Leah asked her then if she thought Leah was selfish. If she thought Leah should have stayed. The Farmer took Leah’s hands in hers, her calluses rough and pleasant against Leah’s skin, and laughed. _Babe,_ She said, the word like velvet. _If you’re all that, why’s he begging_ you _to come back?_

Leah picked up the chisel as soon as the Farmer left and placed it against the wood. Mahogany this time, a wood that could be kept unadulterated. Raw.

"What’s it mean?” The Farmer asks, drawing Leah back into the room. Leah pretends she doesn’t notice how the Farmer’s drawing closer, their shoulders touching where there was cold before. “The shape of it. Or at least, what do you think it is?”

Leah takes another sip. Wine is wine in the end—more palatable the more you have. “I don’t really know. About finding your way, I think. About figuring things out and finding people who can teach you about yourself.” Leah’s heart stutters as an arm winds around her waist, pulling her close. She turns and sees the Farmer wearing a smile she hasn’t seen before, warm with something like hope. Leah dimly remembers a title written hastily on a note and averts her gaze, her cheeks reddening in the shadows.

The Farmer is gentle, playing with the hem of Leah’s shirt, fingertips brushing across the skin of her waist. Her nose brushes against the nape of Leah’s neck, tracing upward. Lips follow, planting that purple stain over Leah’s racing pulse. “And what am I teaching you?”

Leah takes a shuddered breath. Rolls the stem of her glass between her fingers to ground her. “You’re drunk.”

The Farmer giggles and pulls back, her eyes dark in the flickering firelight. “I don’t have to be.” And the confession in her words is so obvious, so breezy, that Leah can’t help but let out a breath of a laugh as the Farmer’s hand travels upward, skirting across the fabric of Leah’s shirt to the end of her braid. Leah says nothing as she feels a gentle tug at her hair tie. Hums with the release. As the Farmer’s fingers slip between the strands of Leah’s hair, undoing her, she says, “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Leah’s breath catches in her throat. She tries to remember the last time anyone ever said such a thing to her and comes up empty. Not her parents, not her friends in the city, certainly not Kel. Against her back, a calloused hand climbs higher and higher up her unwound hair.

And though it’s desperate, though Leah feels ridiculous saying so with tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, she says, “Stay the night.”

The Farmer nods. She brushes her fingers through Leah’s hair, the waves resting easy on the artist’s shoulders. Leah takes a final sip of courage as she watches her Farmer’s lips curve into a smile. The Artist, the Sculptor, the Woman swallows. She leans forward, catching the Farmer’s lips in hers and finally finds sweetness in the wine.


End file.
